little stable boy
by Northerndawn
Summary: Alistair had never met a king before.


**written for school and once i hit the requirement i just kind of... gave... up...**

* * *

Alistair had lived at Recliffe Castle for as long as he could remember, and in all of his nine years, never once had he seen the stable master in such a tizzy.

"Up, boy, up!" Croffe had bellowed earlier that morning, and Alistair, so startled, had rolled out of the hay loft and landed with a solid_ thump_ on the ground. One of the Arl's great speckled destriers nickered curiously at the boy.

Croffe hauled him up, grabbing Alistair's arm and dragging him up from the floor. He seemed distracted. "Eat quickly," he said gruffly, shoving half a loaf of stale bread into the child's hands. "The vultures are coming."

It was then that Alistair understood. He nodded vigorously and shoved a chunk of stale bread into his mouth, deftly brushing off the loose straw that clung to his clothes and hair. He scrambled up the ladder and back into the loft, pushing aside clumps of hay in search of his chest. It was of the utmost importance that he find it: it had all of his clothes. And he really needed different clothes. The vultures were coming.

* * *

Three hours later, Alistair was standing stiffly outside the stable, Croffe and his son in much the same predicament. He had exchanged his stained, threadbare shirt and pants for a clean white blouse and brown trousers. One of the scully maids had washed his face free of dirt and grime, scrubbing so hard that his skin was raw and his cheeks glowed red.

He didn't really understand why he had to go through so much trouble to get clean for company. He was just a stable boy- the bastard son of a serving woman. He wasn't a prince, or some noble's ponce of a son. No one should care if he was dirty, except maybe Croffe, but the stable master had seemed just as disgruntled at being made presentable.

Of course, when Alistair had asked the maids why he needed to be clean, they just clucked their tongues at him. "Milord's orders," they'd each answer, which really meant that they didn't know, either.

Which brings us back to the present. Guests were beginning to arrive for Arl Eamon's annual Satinalia celebration, trickling up the hill and through the gates in their fine carriages, bedecked in satins and silks and gems. Alistair wrinkled his nose and fidgeted; he could smell the pungent perfume already.

"Stand straight, stop slouching, boy," he could hear Croffe murmur. "Here comes the king and the Teyrn of Gwaren."

At first, Alistair didn't see them. He stretched as tall as he could in a hope to catch at least a glimpse of King Maric and Teyrn Loghain, but it was a futile attempt. They weren't in a carriage train; instead, the two men and their children traveled by horse. The king was as bright and cheerful as his companion was stern and morose. Prince Cailan and Lady Anora rode behind their fathers, each fair and golden.

Alistair felt a flare of curiosity at the sight. Maric and Cailan both looked eerily familiar, though he had never seen either in his life.

* * *

The day had been exhausting, and now the stable was full of strange horses. Alistair wanted nothing more than to crawl up in his hay loft and sleep, listening to the soft breathing of the creatures below him. Animals had always proved more pleasant companions than humans.

Before he could retire, however, he heard the creak of one of the stable doors opening, and then the soft crunch of footsteps on straw. One of the Arlessa's attendants appeared around the corner, wrinkling her nose and peering disdainfully at nothing and everything. She was elfin and pretty, petite and in control of the same grace that all elves seemed to exude. When she caught sight of him, her delicate features relaxed into something akin to relief.

"Come, come," she said in her bell-like voice, ushering him toward the open door and into the night air. "His Majesty would like to see you."

* * *

Alistair had never met a king before.

The highest-ranking noble he had ever talked to was Nonna Cousland, daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever. Nonna was his age, if not younger, and a _girl._ She was rowdy and uncouth and nothing at all like a king.

So he stood in the middle of the Arl's study, back straight, arms stiff at his sides, and his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Tell me, Alistair," King Maric began. His voice was light and friendly, bearing the tone of a man who was prone to laughter, but Alistair could feel his bright blue eyes burning into his forehead. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Why would the king of Fereldan be asking him, a lowly stableboy, something like _that_? "Arlessa Isolde wants me to join the Chantry soon as I make my eleventh winter," he mumbled, face tilted towards the floor.

There was a sigh and the sound of footsteps, and then a light pressure on Alistair's shoulder. "You can look at me, you know. I'm not that scary, am I?"

Alistair's chin snapped up, eyes wide, brown meeting blue. The corners of Maric's eyes were crinkled up in a smile and he knelt before Alistair, exuding a kind of comforting warmth that Alistair had always imagined a father's love to feel like. "And besides, I asked what _you _wanted, not what the Arlessa wants," he said, before his eyes flickered to Arl Eamon, who sat behind his desk. "If I may speak so freely, Your Grace?"

Eamon gave a tight smile and stiff nod, and Alistair mused on his answer. He had never really thought of what he wanted to be when he grew up. Isolde wanted him shipped off to somewhere that wasn't Redcliffe as soon as possible, and he had never questioned it. She didn't like him, not one bit. "I want to take care of horses," he said finally, and it was only after the words tumbled from his mouth that he saw how foolish they were. The boy felt a hot flush creeping up his neck.

Maric laughed, and it was a low, soothing sound. "A fine goal," he said, straightening and ruffling Alistair's hair. "It's getting rather late, isn't it? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

* * *

The two men watched the boy scurry out of the room, and Maric's cheery countenance slid away as soon as the door closed. He sighed and slumped into a chair, rubbing a calloused hand down his face. "Is Isolde truly so set on having him take the vows?" he asked, and it sounded as if the words pained him.

"She thinks he is _my _bastard, Your Majesty, no matter how many times I say otherwise," Eamon replied sharply, watching his king like a hawk. "You should have sent him to Highever. It's not uncommon for Bryce Cousland to take some orphan under his care."

"I needed someone I could trust," Maric said, and the words should have been firm, but he just sounded tired. "I already hear enough about it from Loghain."

Eamon wanted to make a witty reply, and he would have, had he been speaking to anyone else. "So you send him to the brother of your dead wife?" he asks, sardonicly.

Maric looks up from the fire, and his eyes are sad and they peer at Eamon. "I just needed to see him. He is so much like _her_."

"I couldn't say," the Arl returns breezily. "But I think he is entirely too much like you."


End file.
